


a draught for the soft yet stubborn

by grimdarkfandango, Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), First Time, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mutual Pining, Prophecy, Sex Pollen, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), they both want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimdarkfandango/pseuds/grimdarkfandango, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: “Do you know what’s happening to me?” Aziraphale asked, his fingers gripping at his knees with the effort of not getting up off the stool and pressing the whole of his body against Crowley’s back. “Be truthful with me.”Crowley spun around. Ripping off his glasses, he threw them aside and set his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders to look him straight in the eye. “You’re horny, angel. Straight up gagging for it, looking for a first-class ticket to pound town, horny.”“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly, and glanced down at his lap, “that explains the hard on.”tl;dr prophecy makes them do it





	a draught for the soft yet stubborn

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html) prompt: Ive seen it the other way round but has anybody done sex pollened Aziraphale yet? Top Aziraphale and bottom Crowley, penises preferred for anatomy. I would love for you include the emotional repercussions of this!

It was half past ten o’clock in the morning when a parcel neatly wrapped in paper and tied with string was delivered by courier to A.Z. Fell’s. Inside was a hand-sewn book with a thick leather cover, the pages penned by quill and ink, and tucked neatly inside the leaf was a wax-sealed letter of the sort that Aziraphale had not laid eyes on in several hundred years. 

It wasn’t addressed to him by name, nor did he recognize the seal, but after opening it, Aziraphale knew immediately who had sent him the parcel. The letter read:

> Heed my words angel for they are writ for thee.
> 
> All ‘round ye menne shall be corrupted by violent lusts as arises a pow’rful demon comme to collect their due. Bridel thyself lest ye be led astray into the slavering chaps of wolves. Lo, aft’r the ende of all things at honestee renounced, the eyes of Heaven will scarce remain closed.
> 
> ...and with this last and final prophecy, I also give to thee mine own book of cookery and herbes for thy shoppes fine collection.

“Honesty renounced?” Aziraphale said aloud, trying to puzzle out Agnes’s meaning. Having read the entire book of Nice and Accurate Prophecies, this felt far more pointed, and yet it could mean any number of things.

He mulled it over for a full day before ringing Crowley to see if he had any ideas. Usually, Crowley was brimming with them.

“A powerful demon come to collect their due?” Crowley’s skepticism positively dripped through the line.

Aziraphale wiped his hand off on his trousers. “Yes, that’s what it says. Do you know any demons with a fondness for wolves? Maybe that’s a clue.”

“There’s Flauros, but she’s a furry not a threat. Wouldn’t count on any of the other Great Dukes of Hell to ‘come collect’ anything either. The workforce is in shambles; they’re going to have their hands full with PIPs for the next millenia.

“And Satan...? Well, he’s going to be sulking for a lot longer than that.”

“Could it be another bid at the Apocalypse?”

“Who knows. It’s probably nonsense. Things have _changed_ Aziraphale. The world’s been remade.”

Aziraphale wasn’t so certain. It hadn’t been 400-years remade. But as unnerved as he was by the idea of Heaven keeping watch on him again, he supposed that as with Agnes’s other prophecies, this one would become most clear when it was needed. He bid Crowley a good night, filed the letter atop a teetering stack of other mail, and fixed some tea.

In the morning, bright and early, Aziraphale settled in to give the rest of the book the attention it was due.

Paging through it he confirmed that there were no other divinations to be found hidden amongst Agnes’s handwriting—that is, if one ignored the section of _Faste and Simple recipes writ for when the Potte Instant overtaketh the land._ Most of the book was basic tinctures and tidy drawings of herbs and mushrooms, and the majority of cookery centered around the sort of helpful medicinal draughts that women had passed knowledge of to one another for centuries. Eventually he shelved the book and proceeded to give it little further thought.

So little thought that it wasn’t until some months later when a young scholar came in inquiring about old recipes that he had reason to pull down Agnes’s book again. Scholars were his favorite sort of caller. They knew how to treat old books properly for one, but better than that, they rarely actually wanted to buy anything, content generally to read and take notes or snap a photograph or two.

He left the young woman alone in a quiet corner with a small selection of books and puttered about for a while. Some hours later he circled around to find her peering intently at a page in Agnes’s tidy handwriting. “Doing all right?” he inquired politely. He didn’t want to chase her out exactly, but the longer he stayed open the more likely it became that someone eager to make a purchase might wander in.

“This is the fourth recipe in here that aims to treat erectile dysfunction. It’s fascinating,” the scholar remarked, penning a few notes on her little wirebound pad.

“Man has been rather preoccupied with virility since, well, since leaving the Garden of Eden,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure it was a popular draught to earn a bit of coin with.”

“That makes sense, but…. Just look, this last one’s got bonkers ingredients.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. He’d thought he’d gone through the book rather diligently, but to be honest, for all his love of a good meal, he had never been terribly interested in cooking them. It was entirely plausible that he’d skimmed a bit.

He peered at the page and the young woman turned the book around so he could read it more easily.

> A draught for the soft yet stubborn. To be administered liberally to a prick not fully fallen.

The ingredients beneath it were many and occult, a list befitting Agnes’s legacy as a proper witch. It included amongst other things: a splash of wine no less than three years in the bottle; a large white shield held aloft; and a few drops of blood from a virgin, unsuspecting.

“Odd,” Azirphale conceded. “Though the author _was_ notoriously burned at the stake.”

“Fascinating,” the young woman said again, looking for all the world like she now definitely intended to stay where she was until closing. Or set up camp permanently if only he’d permit it.

“Getting a bit late isn’t it? It’ll be dark soon, and didn’t you bicycle here? Why not come back tomorrow to finish your research. Or, better yet, on Thursday, first thing in the morning,” Aziraphale smiled winningly.

“Oh, I’ll be back tomorrow for sure. And you can ignore me, I’m fine staying until seven.”

Aziraphale was less fine. He’d prefer to close up shop early. There was a certain prickle at the back of his neck that often meant someone nearby was on the lookout for a pricey gift for some undeserving soul. “Would you look at that,” he said, casting significant glances towards the door. “I think it might rain.”

She frowned and reached for her mobile. “I just checked my phone five minutes ago. I swear there wasn’t anything about rain.”

“Oh, I think I know a downpour coming on when I feel one,” Aziraphale persisted. He tapped his fingers to his elbow. “These old bones, you know. They rarely lie.”

As if conveniently summoned, a storm cloud scooted in and chased away the bits of late afternoon sun filtering in softly through the shop’s windows. A distant rumble of thunder sounded.

“Ugh, this weather app is garbage, I don’t know how it has such a good rating,” she said, staring at the partly-cloudy-with-sun icon as if it might admit something. She shut the app and crammed her mobile back in her pocket but didn’t make any other move towards packing up.

The thunder came closer and gave it a harder go, ominously rattling the windows

Droplets began to pelt the glass and she looked appropriately motivated now. “Oh my God, look at that, you’re right,” she said, and neatly placed the books back in the order he’d given them to her in before flipping her notepad shut and stuffing it away in her bag. “I guess I’d better go home and check on my roommate’s cat. Mauzi always horks in my room when she gets nervous.”

“Good luck with your paper,” Aziraphale said, ushering her to the door. She thanked him kindly, and he called out a cheery reminder to wear her helmet before latching the door firmly behind her and flipping the sign.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he went to retrieve the books. He cradled the stack in his arm and set about tucking them in their proper places. Being a personal collection and not a library, he kept a near incomprehensible filing system, but each book had a home, even if sometimes that meant the floor or a corner that never saw the business end of a broom. As he filed them away one by one, he thought that in all honesty, he wouldn’t mind the young scholar back in his shop again, but perhaps he could convince her to make an appointment. In fact, as he put the last volume back on the shelf, he wondered if it might be possible to reduce his public hours by another third without needing to work miracles to avoid vultures seeking to capitalize on underutilized retail properties.

Speaking of minor miracles, it was probably nigh time for this very unseasonable storm to clear up. Aziraphale wandered to the kitchen and uncorked a lovely bottle of sauvignon blanc he’d been saving and poured himself a glass of wine first. There was always something refreshing about pairing a crisp wine with a light shower. The bouquet hinted at peach and freshly-cut grass, promising a perfect accompaniment to enjoy along with the gentle sound of rain. He was certain that by now the young lady was halfway home to her roommate’s vomitous feline, and that the rooftop gardens in the neighborhood had enjoyed the drizzle.

Only it was no longer a drizzle with an ominous thunder; it had brewed itself into a proper storm. The thunder had ramped up its assault and brought along a sizzling bolt of lightning to light up the street with a loud crack. Even the wind was howling, which he certainly hadn’t asked it to do. Aziraphale prayed for it all to stop, and it calmed considerably, but not before a tree branch whipped into his kitchen window.

Reflexively, Aziraphale’s wings came up to block the scatter of glass. “Oh drat,” he said, failing to steady his glass in time before it spilled on his trousers. Glad it had been a white, he grabbed a tea towel off the peg and clucked his tongue as he dabbed at the spot. He frowned and paused when a bright red droplet fell to the floor in front of him.

He glanced up and curled his wing around, plucking a sliver of glass from beneath one of his secondaries. It bit into his finger and he flicked it into the sink before sucking the hurt away. He stretched his wing and healed the cut as he saw to the stain on his trousers. Outside, another crack of brilliant white lightning streaked through the sky, and as the rain hurried on a final peal of thunder rolled through London like the tolling of a bell.

That night, after tidying up the kitchen and making a note to call a repairman about the glass, Aziraphale slept rather poorly. He woke feeling feverish and prudently kept the shop closed; in the thousands of years he’d had this body, his divine essence had only failed at burning out an illness twice, and both times it’d been the common cold that laid him low. As expected, the sickness passed by evening, but whatever bug he’d briefly caught left him restless and vaguely anxious. Attempting to read and failing to make it past a single paragraph no matter how hard he tried, he realized that he hadn’t heard from Crowley going on months now. Not since…. Not since he’d rung him about Agnes’s prophecy. Maybe it was finally time to get a mobile. Pushing a screen instead of using the rotary though couldn’t be nearly so satisfying.

He left a brief message on Crowley's answer machine telling him that he was giving serious thought to finally sexting and suggesting they meet for dinner soon. His grip on the receiver tightened briefly before he put it back on the hook. There was more he wanted to say, a building something in the back of his throat that he couldn’t quite find the words for. It was a bit unsettling. He hoped it didn’t mean anything had happened to Crowley. Surely, he would’ve felt it, if something so momentous threatened his dearest friend.

Aziraphale waited around for a few minutes in case Crowley rang back. Eventually, after so much restless pacing back and forth that he thought he might wear a track into the floor, he grabbed up his coat. He often found when he worried about anything, popping down to the pub was a balm. Surrounding himself with teeming humanity, so resourceful and resilient, was endlessly reassuring.

Tonight though, he found his feet walking him past the usual place—a local pub that always conveniently had a corner booth available with just enough light to read by, a good vintage, and a reassuringly sturdy pork pie dinner—and further down the lanes of Soho to a rather more convivial establishment.

He drifted through the people milling about outside, groups smoking and talking and gesturing largely with their drinks, and barely registered the security at the door giving him a curious once-over before waving him through. The neon lights flickered and the music was loud—and _bebop_ to boot—but something about it seemed to work in syncopation with the jitter in his veins.

If his coat had felt too-warm in the chill of the street, in here with so many bodies he found himself sweltering. Temperature usually didn’t register with his body, not negatively anyhow. He wasn’t terribly fond of damp, but most everything else from mid-summer heat to winter chill were pleasant enough. If he’d thought about it, he’d consider it odd, but he was too intent on hunting for the cloakroom.

Aziraphale found the clerk and promptly left them with his coat, and then on second thought his jacket, and on third...his waistcoat. He rolled up his cuffs to his elbows and didn’t feel the need to go back a fourth. He was still too warm, but with fewer clothes on, he could safely say that it wasn’t a lingering fever. The flush settled into his skin felt more in line with the buzzing glow of downing a very good bottle of brandy.

The anxiety he’d felt was blessedly gone, the restlessness a distant memory. The thumping of the music was very loud, and yet he didn’t hate it. In fact, he found himself wandering about the dancefloor with a smile, waving hello here and there when heads turned.

He didn’t shake his tail, as they say, but he did eventually notice that he’d come in to a gentlemen’s club.

“Gay bar,” said the young man who at some point he’d put an arm around and had begun to lean against.

“Sorry?”

“They got someone on the door, sure, but it ain’t exclusive. If you’re wondering where all the other lesbians are at, there’s a drag king show going on up on the first floor.” He paused in the middle of taking a sip of his drink to gesture at Aziraphale’s present attire. “Oh my days, you a performer?”

Aziraphale pulled back and shook his head. “Oh, Heavens no. And I’m not a lesbian—well, not at the moment. I’m actually an angel!”

The tall bearded fellow to his right gave him a once over and made a low hum of agreement. “You sure are honey. Did it hurt when you fell?”

Aziraphale’s young friend coughed into his drink and muttered something like “fucking awful,” before patting Aziraphale on the arm. "So sorry love, didn't mean to misgender you, I've just been directing the ladies upstairs half the night." Aziraphale patted his hand with a smile of forgiveness, and cupped a hand to his ear. Surely, he hadn’t heard the bearded gentleman’s query correctly.

Mr. Salt-and-pepper beard bared a grin full of teeth. He muscled a little closer and put his lips near enough to Aziraphale that he could feel the brush of them against his ear. “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?” he asked, his voice pitching low with a rolling lilt.

“Oh. Oh! You’ve just used a pick-up line on me. Very clever play on the whole angel thing,” Aziraphale replied cheerfully. He leaned towards the man and put a hand lightly on his chest; he looked around at all the expectant faces in the crowd that had begun to cluster near. “But no, no-no-no. Not at all. Technically while I’m not...on the job any longer, so to speak, I’m not a _fallen_ angel. I’m more of a _paid indefinite leave_ angel. I can assure you that God hasn’t lost faith in me. Despite what Heaven might say about it, I’m still firmly in Her favor. I know, because I can still make miracles happen.”

Young gin-and-tonic man wet his lip. At some point his thigh had begun to press against Aziraphale’s. “I bet you can,” he murmured.

Even with the buzzing in his head and along his skin, and the strange throbbing heat that pulsed with the beat of the music, Aziraphale could sense their disbelief. He hadn’t ever been fond of grand spectacles to cement the faith of man, but he did enjoy every once in a while giving unbelievers the chance to open their hearts to the Almighty. And right now his own heart felt very open. “Would you like me to show you?”

Aziraphale surveyed the room, now very full of bodies pressed close in the dim light and heavy heat, brief flashes of neon illuminating the dancefloor. He spotted one dancer wearing an _interesting_ looking concoction of straps and buckles over a close-fit mesh shirt, catching and reflecting the lights rather fetchingly. He concentrated momentarily, snapped his fingers, and then beamed a smile at his new companions. "Well, how do I look?"

He'd taken some liberties—cream leather and gold buckles were far more his colours as black and silver made him think of Crowley—but looking down at himself, he’d produced a reasonable copy of the harness over his own well-worn blue button-down.

Young gin-and-tonic let out a delighted squeal and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's. "I knew it, you ARE a performer! That's one hell of a wardrobe change. You do that on open mic night upstairs you'll have the crowd eating out of your hand!"

Mr. Salt-and-pepper beard leaned closer still, running an appraising hand over the straps across Aziraphale's shoulder. "Damn you are hot as fuck. I'll call you whatever you like, angel, if you let me buy you a drink."

Aziraphale wasn't quite sure if he'd gotten his point across, and something felt decidedly… _off_ about someone other than Crowley calling him "angel", but he was very warm and the hands on him felt very nice and a drink sounded like just the thing he needed.

“I would absolutely love a sidecar,” Aziraphale said, perching upright with a wiggle that was part delight and part trying to get his temperature to settle down. Maybe he should’ve gone all out and copied the mesh shirt as well. He almost did, but for fear of showing off too pridefully, he loosened his bow tie and then the top two buttons of his shirt instead.

Salt-and-pepper beard scraped his teeth over his lip approvingly before twisting towards the bartender to order Aziraphale’s sidecar. When his attention returned to Aziraphale, his hands grew more bold, sliding up past Aziraphale’s collar to stroke the tips of his fingers lightly against the skin of his neck.

It felt very nice. Gin-and-tonic’s hands were also nice, rubbing lightly at the low of his back, just above the waist of his trousers. And then there was the handsome silver-haired butch woman in a sleeveless denim jacket who’d been looking for the stairs, but who was now leaning in to kiss him.

Aziraphale obliged happily. He _liked_ kissing. Eventually the sidecar made it into his hand, the cocktail glass blessedly chill, and he sipped at it between kisses, moving hazily to whomever tipped his face towards them next. There were so many now, clustered tightly and jockeying for space. Behind him, Gin-and-tonic was biting lightly at the slope of his shoulder, while Salt-and-pepper beard had curled a hand beneath the strap of his harness and was pulling him in with a roughly-whispered promise to give him anything he wanted. The kiss he claimed was a bit hungrier, and Aziraphale groaned into the man’s mouth.

He had no idea what he might ask for, but it didn’t matter. The humans gathered around him were doing plenty of wanting on his behalf. He felt absolutely divine, wonderfully alive in all senses. The buttons of his shirt had all been opened to his navel, and there were hands rubbing over his chest and belly, and lower where his thighs had spread. A strange urge was building, something swelling inside him primal and inevitable like a wave rushing to shore.

An answering ripple passed through the crowd and then the dancefloor was parting like the Red Sea, patrons hastily making way. With the lights flashing rapidly, the figure arrowing towards him in the gap seemed to be moving in triple time, like a film skipping frames.

“Crowley!” he crooned, pulling his mouth away from another man with a trim beard seeking to devour him with biting kisses. “Meet my new friends. I’m afraid I don’t know any of their names, but they’re all such lovely people.”

Crowley stood like a solid shadow, his sunglasses flashing distorted reflections of the red club lights as he surveyed the group pressed hungrily against Aziraphale. "Hands off," he ordered, swinging his arm to point at the men and women who didn’t immediately pay attention to the command. Behind him, the crowd slowly started amassing again.

_ **”Now.”** _

Towards the back of the room, the DJ’s turntables scratched and stopped. For a heartbeat there was a deathly, ominous silence, broken only by the rattle of empty glasses trembling on the bar and a bit of dirt shook loose from the rafters.

The music kicked back in and most of the group took the menace to heart, slinking off to dissipate into the crowd with only longing looks and trailing hands, but the few nearest to Aziraphale remained, glassy-eyed and clinging. Several pairs of hands stayed pressed between the straps of the harness and their bodies pulled closer around Aziraphale. He welcomed the feel for the most part, although the blissful joy of the skin sliding over his own was tempered somewhat by a queer longing he couldn’t quite express.

Gin-and-tonic paused, looking up from where he was determinedly sucking a mark under Aziraphale's ear to sneer at Crowley. "Who the fuck d’you think you are? You don't get to tell us what to do. Anyway, there's plenty to go around—"

Gin-and-tonic yelped when Crowley grasped the front of Aziraphale's leather harness and yanked him forward, away from the clutch of admirers. Salt-and-pepper beard drew himself up to his full height and pursued, a darkness taking over his gaze. "He's ours, give him back!"

Crowley wound an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him tight into his space and hissed at the advancing man, fangs lengthening and glistening with venom. A warning yellow glow pierced the dark of his glasses. "He'ssss _mine_ so jog on, mate."

Salt-and-pepper beard staggered back wide-eyed, and Aziraphale beamed a smile at Crowley. "Oh my dear, that's really very sweet. But young gin-and-tonic there was right: there’s plenty of me to go around."

“Not tonight there isn’t,” Crowley said, and dragged Aziraphale through the crowd.

The patrons still cleared the way, but barely, closing ranks the moment they’d moved past. Bereft admirers trailed after Aziraphale, still trying to reach for him and snatch at his harness or the tails of his shirt, to run hot hands against his skin. Aziraphale for his part didn't really notice the hubbub, or if he did, didn’t care, busy as he was attempting to climb inside Crowley's jacket as they walked. It felt so lovely and warm and smelled so nice under there.

With fresh air on his face, he finally noticed people following, spilling out of the bar and calling him to come back. Newcomers on the sideway swiveled towards him. He reached a trailing hand towards them until Crowley’s arm slithered around him and pinned him even more tightly.

And then before he knew it Crowley was helping him into the Bentley and strapping the seatbelt around him; a surprise because up until this moment, there hadn’t been any seatbelts to speak of. A pair of meaty hands slapped to the windows beside Aziraphale followed by declarations of eternal love and more greedy, eager hands. 

“You’re going to go fast, aren’t you,” he said, frowning and plucking at the strap across his chest.

“You have no idea,” Crowley muttered as he slid into the driver’s seat.

The street started to look like the aftermath of a devastating football match and the Bentley didn’t dare move under the attempts to tip it until of course, it suddenly _was_ moving, and then it was moving very, very fast indeed. Aziraphale found that for once he didn’t even seem to mind, not when Crowley kept sneaking looks at him as the streets blurred by. He loved when Crowley looked at him. Almost as much as he loved looking at Crowley.

Crowley’s glances weren’t the usual sort—tinged with slyness and a certain restraint—and he wasn’t looking at Aziraphale quite like the fellows at the bar had. There was a little vein of tension at his temple and his hands were literally clawed at the wheel. The slightest hint of a blush showed near his collar, and Aziraphale wondered what it might feel like to put his tongue there, where the leap of Crowley’s pulse showed beneath his skin.

“Did you get my message?” he asked, when they’d come to a stop again and Crowley came around to open the door for him and help him out. 

“I did.” Crowley nodded towards the building that housed his flat. “Now come on…. Come with me, angel before any more humans try to horn in.”

“Gladly.”

Crowley ushered him into the building, and then the lift, marching him forward with a hand fisted in the back of the harness. Aziraphale keenly felt the loss of being able to snuggle close to his side, and tried several times to twist around and wriggle back under the leaf of Crowley’s coat.

“Take a deep breath and calm down,” Crowley told him, still holding him—frustratingly—at arm’s length. “Are you on some kind of drugs? What did they give you?”

Aziraphale looked at his own reflection in the mirrored doors of the lift. With his shirt untucked and peeling open beneath the leather he looked, not precisely rumpled, but mussed. _Tawdry,_ perhaps. He ran his hands down his front, feeling a bit giddy at the way his own skin felt beneath his palms. “I don’t think I’m on any illicit substances, but I am beginning to think there’s something odd happening. I’m craving something and I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”

He ran his fingers thoughtfully over his lips, watching Crowley watch him in the reflection.

“Oh, you’re craving something all right.”

“Is it pho? Or maybe a big bowl of goulash all meaty and rich. No...something more substantial is in order. Something I can really sink my teeth into. Like a nice fat sausage.”

Crowley choked, and the doors to the lift opened with a merry ding.

“Why are you being so queer, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked plaintively as he was led into the kitchen.

Crowley stared at him slack-jawed. “Why am _I_ being queer?” He sat Aziraphale upon a high, somewhat uncomfortable stool and told him (twice) to stay put.

He didn’t want to stay put, but he did, albeit not without fidgeting as Crowley put the kettle on. He missed all those hands. All that touching. And Crowley had hands, two very fine and capable hands. “Do you know what’s happening to me?” Aziraphale asked, his fingers gripping at his knees with the effort of not getting up off the stool and pressing the whole of his body against Crowley’s back. “Be truthful with me.” 

Crowley spun around. Ripping off his glasses, he threw them aside and set his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders to look him straight in the eye. “You’re horny, angel. Straight up gagging for it, looking for a first-class ticket to pound town, horny.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly, and glanced down at his lap, “that explains the hard on.”

Crowley lifted his hands away, and stepped back to give him space. It wasn’t pleasant, having Crowley avoid him like he was made of holy water.

“Will it stop?” Having a vague if-not-entirely fathomable understanding of the simmering _something_ that had been consuming him for hours now, Aziraphale found he could better control the impulse to touch Crowley, and he didn’t lean forward (much) when Crowley slid a mug of tea onto the counter.

“Depends on what’s causing it, I suppose.” Crowley blew softly into his mug, sending the steam scattering. He slung a hip against the edge of the counter and gestured with his chin at Aziraphale’s outfit. “Soft butch is a good look on you.”

“Do you think? I’ve never really been fond of buckles,” Aziraphale replied, plucking at a D-ring. “I miss laces. And _lace._ I hope Beau Brummel is getting what he deserves down there.”

“Sorry angel he’s one of yours.”

“Fuck.”

Aziraphale sipped at the tea, the warmth of it subsuming the other heat and leaving him more grounded.

For a brief while.

Crowley was refusing to look at him. He'd been doing his best to stay on the high stool and finish his tea, like normal, but it was frankly distracting how Crowley continued to refuse to meet his eyes. And then there was the twitch of Crowley's slender fingers against the mug in his hand. Aziraphale worried his bottom lip between his teeth and squirmed in his seat. It took so much of his concentration not to leap up and pull those long fingers away from the curve of the mug and to the curve of his mouth that he almost didn't notice when Crowley started talking.

"Tell me everything you remember happening before you started feeling…odd. Maybe you ate something weird?"

Aziraphale dragged his thoughts back from Crowley's hands and recounted his last couple of days. "Nothing new really, I've just been in the shop as normal. A young scholar did come by, looking for old cookbooks—I showed her a few, including the one from Agnes that came with the letter. You remember I told you about it a few months ago. She was so enraptured I had to summon a bit of rain to scare her off or she would’ve never left. Oh, there was a small accident with the kitchen window that'll need repairing. But I don't see how any of that could have caused this."

Crowley sighed and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Maybe best to try and sleep it off.”

Aziraphale's mug clattered against the counter as he all but dropped it in rush to finally stand. “Good idea. I had a fever yesterday, you know. After I screwed up that business with the rain.“

“Weather’s always tricky,” Crowley said hastily. “C'mon now, let me get you in bed." Aziraphale's eyes lit up at 'bed' and his rapid advance into Crowley's personal space was stopped only by the hand darting out to slap against his chest, keeping him at arm's length.

“Not that way! I’ll take the sofa.” Crowley seemed to wince at the contact and turned Aziraphale around, taking hold of the harness again to steer him towards the bedroom. He was less than gentle as he kicked open the door and propelled Aziraphale inside. Aziraphale had never been in this part of Crowley’s flat, and couldn’t say he was surprised by the austere space dominated by a large dark slab of a bed, massive floor to ceiling windows, and not a lot else.

"Really now dear, you don't have a single comfortable piece of furniture in your flat? I know you know what cushions are, you've put enough lumps in mine napping on them."

Crowley snarled and snapped his fingers. A cascade of pillows appeared mid-air and bounced down to scatter on the bed, along with a blanket Aziraphale was sure normally resided on the sofa in the back of his shop specifically in case anyone (Crowley) wanted to catch a few winks there.

Aziraphale felt a shove as Crowley pushed him towards the bed, releasing his grip on the harness and fleeing back out the door. "Sleep it off, angel. You'll be fine by morning."

The door slammed, and Aziraphale was alone. He crawled into the nest of pillows, clutching one to his chest as he curled on his side, gaze pinned longingly at the door before he screwed his eyes tight. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at all, he didn’t make a habit of it, but surely Crowley was right and whatever was affecting him would burn out by morning.

He dozed fitfully for God only knows how long, dreaming of all those people reaching for him. It was a pleasant dream to begin with, just as it had been pleasant in the bar. Aziraphale was enjoying an endless stream of soft petting touches and whispered adulation until all of a sudden, he wasn’t.

He was on fire, and he was drowning, _alone_. The fever had roared back, making everything ache with burning, all-consuming want. He arched off the bed, letting out an insensible cry as he strained against invisible bonds. He twisted, arm reaching and hand grasping for something to make it stop. With a bang, the door crashed open and Crowley tumbled through, golden eyes blown wide and wild as he staggered to where Aziraphale writhed on the bed, pillows long flung to the floor.

Aziraphale _reached_ for him, but it was as though he were miles away.

"Angel, angel—Aziraphale! I'm here, I'm right here." Crowley rushed to lay hands on him, pressing him back down to the mattress and Aziraphale moaned in relief. Crowley's hands were a cool compress, a tangible anchor that left him tingling and craving more.

He surged up, clutching at Crowley's shirt and yanking him off-balance to tumble onto the bed with him. He ought to apologize, but he was dimly aware he was already speaking, a litany of "Crowley" and "please" and "need," begging as he rolled them both over and buried his face in Crowley's neck, hands skimming up his sides under his shirt to the blessedly cool skin beneath. He could taste Crowley’s pulse beneath his lips, a rapidfire skitter that made Aziraphale’s heart leap to match it.

Crowley was gasping beneath him, hands working on the buckles of the harness, clawing to release Aziraphale from the confinement. "I'm here angel, yes, yes I'm here, I've got you.”

“_Fuck_," Crowley spat, and gave up on undoing the buckles the hard way. He snapped his fingers to make the whole thing disappear.

Freed, Aziraphale moaned again, rising to his knees to finally shuck out of his drenched dress shirt. His thighs clutched tight around Crowley’s hips and he looked down on him with a new clarity of purpose. A new and all-consuming hunger. "Oh yes, that sounds like a marvelous idea, darling."

Crowley let out a small shriek.

*

[A Bit Over Twenty-Four Hours Earlier]

Crowley dodged out of the way of a young woman on a bicycle who rode at breakneck speed on the pavement. He wasn’t the only one to get out of her way at the last moment, and he nodded appreciatively as she hopped off and on the curb as needed to inconvenience both drivers _and_ pedestrians.

A bus stop advert went to static briefly as he passed it. The cartoon banana advocating for safer sex turned to look at him and said:

**ATTENTION ALL MINIONS OF HELL, IF YOU ARE NOT DOING YOUR SATANIC DUTY, THE DARK COUNCIL _WILL_ FIND OUT ABOUT IT. SEE YOUR MANAGER IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT YOUR PERFORMANCE IMPROVEMENT PUNISHMENT.**

Crowley waved a dismissive hand at the automated messaging. He wished they’d take him off the cc, but he wasn’t going to remind anyone he was still on the list, just in case they decided to put a hit out on him or something.

A drop of rain dared to strike the ground a little too close to his shoes for comfort, and he squinted up at the sky where a storm was fast approaching. “What the Heaven is that all about?”

The banana advert stayed silent. All down the block people who hadn’t had any reason to tote an umbrella about starting holding their palms out or checking their highly-rated yet rarely accurate weather apps (garbage, all of them—he should know). Having arrived at his destination, Crowley moved under the overhang and smirked as he encouraged the rain to come down a bit harder.

He pressed the buzzer as a ripple of cursing followed in the direction of the wind. People began throwing elbows and jockeying for space under the bus stop. He pressed it again impatiently and called up to the open window: “Flauros, I know you’re home. It’s me.”

Two pointy black ears preceded a head popping out of the second floor window. “Crowley? It’s so early.”

“It’s six o’clock in the evening. Just let me in, it’s raining and I need to ask you something. I brought takeaway.” Crowley held up a bag of food and gave it a little shake.

“What sort?”

“Lamb biryani and lamb keema, extra extra spicy.”

Flauros cursed at him and disappeared. A moment later the door swung open with an unholy squeal. A coal black fox with flaming eyes sat on the steps of the narrow stairwell, and it watched him calmly as he took the stairs two at a time.

It wasn’t hard to guess which door belonged to Flauros. Crowley waited on the ‘wipe your paws’ doormat until she couldn’t resist the offering anymore and fully let him in.

“Missed your trial,” she said, opening the door. She sniffed the air and eyed him warily as she stepped aside to let him in her flat. “Congratulations on still existing, I suppose.”

“Thanks.” He handed her the bag. “Still a furry?”

“Why do you think I missed your trial? I’ve spent months working on my new suit; once the Apocalypse was cancelled I wasn’t going to skip The Great Furscape for a boring old execution.”

“Just what I wanted to hear,” Crowley said, and scooped a cat out of the way to sit on the sofa. He handed her the scrap of paper where he’d jotted down Agnes’s prophecy. Flauros hadn’t been his first choice for information, obviously so since it’d taken him weeks to get to her, but she’d always loved oracles and scrying. “I’ve been trying to figure out what this means. Any ideas?”

“When was this written? You don’t see auguries like this very often anymore.”

“No idea,” Crowley lied. He might not think Flauros was a threat and he might have bought her cooperation with the offering, but he also didn’t trust her. Aside from Aziraphale, he didn’t trust anyone who did more work than they needed to. Why hand-sew a suit to wear when you already had fur?

“Bridel thyself lest ye be led astray into the slavering chaps of wolves, eh?” Flauros read aloud. The smoldering flames behind her eyes leapt. She grinned slyly and tapped a claw against her lip. “Sounds like a good time in Soho if you ask me.”

“What?”

“You know, _wolves_,” Flauros said, and at Crowley’s shrug proceeded to give him a crash course in queer terminology of the last couple decades.

“Wish I knew who this refers to; I love a vicious gangbang,” Flauros said, handing the scrap back to Crowley. She pulled takeaway boxes out of the bag and started purring. “Course it sounds like whoever is getting this soul after it’s lost its purity will have Heaven to pay.”

“Purity?” Crowley repeated.

“Yeah, ‘honesty renounced’. It sounds like someone is gonna slut it up so hard leaving them to us isn’t punishment enough.”

Language changed so much and so often, he’d utterly forgotten that ‘honestee’ had at one time meant purity or chastity. This was maybe worse than he thought. Soho was teeming with all sorts of lustful men in—he now recognized—every animal category possible. And Aziraphale was keeping shop in the middle of it all like the softest most tender lamb.

“Do you know if anyone else is in town? Another Duke? A Marquis even?”

“I like you Crowley, even without the scales and the tail. But I don’t like you _that_ much. You’d better go.”

Crowley didn’t push his luck. He departed with a wave and a call of, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” while knowing full well that was a short list and she’d never have believed the things he _did_ want to do. He scowled at the storm and dashed back to the Bentley, rain now coming down too hard for him to avoid getting soaked without drawing too much attention from passersby.

The seats of the Bentley knew better than to get wet, but he was still cold and annoyed by the time he got back to his flat. He’d tried to ring Aziraphale from the car but the storm had knocked out cell service in the London area. Crowley swore and a fresh bolt of lightning sizzled through the sky. He’d meant to inconvenience others when he’d encouraged the rain, not himself. Oh well, what’s done was done—a hot shower, a nap, and he’d get Aziraphale on the line later to let him know what he’d learned.

Lulled to sleep with the warmth from the shower, it wasn’t until the next evening Crowley blearily stumbled out of his bedroom and thought to check his answerphone.

-beep- _“Oh! Blast. I’m really starting to think I should try that sexting you’re always on about, it’s so hard [garbled] I want to get a hold of you sometimes. We should have dinner soon and see how things measure up, hmm? Anyway, I think I’m going out for the evening if you’re around, I’m absolutely ravenous.”_ -beeeep-

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Texting, angel, texting. I’m not bloody explaining the difference to you again now am I.” He frowned and played the message back again. Something sounded off about Aziraphale’s voice; there was a concerning amount of heavy breathing and some slight slurring. Not quite drunk but also not quite all there, and he practically _moaned_ the word ravenous.

“Oh FUCK.”

A scrabble for shoes and a slamming door left the message playing one more time to a room empty but for the stench of brimstone and leftover miracles.

The bookshop was empty, and a frantic check of the closest restaurants and pubs didn’t turn up anything useful until he stuck his head into one of the late-night takeaways, growing desperate. The regular cashier waved at him, long familiar with their all-hours orders of bibimbap and ddukbokki. “Mr. Crowley! You looking for Mr. Fell?” Crowley darted in as the boy leaned over the stretch of counter with a concerned look on his face. “You two aren’t having a spat are you? Whatever it is you’d better buy a big apology bouquet and fast, ‘cause he looked like a man on a mission if you know what I mean.” The cashier propped his chin on his fist and mouthed the word ‘rebound’.

Crowley barely resisted the urge to drag the boy over the counter to force the information out of him. He couldn’t restrain the hissing. “Where issss he?”

The boy pointed out the window at the bar across the street, thumping bass audible through the doors and a line around the corner of patrons trying to get in, much longer than he’d seen before and with a worrying intensity in their attempts to push past the harried door security.

Crowley made a mental note to tip extra next time they called down late and dashed straight out the door, diving through the crowd with a growl. He was visibly crackling with so much dark energy the crowd scattered before him, reeling and stunned, backing away with the sort of instinctive self-preservation that meant they’d hardly believed their own eyes.

He could sympathize.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, between shoving his tongue down the throats of the various lesbians and beardy humans trying to dry hump him. “Meet my new friends. I’m afraid I don’t know any of their names, but they’re all such lovely people.”

Crowley highly doubted that they were _all_ lovely people, but he was fairly certain they shouldn’t be touching Aziraphale like that. Aziraphale looked gorgeous as usual—well, distinctly not as usual as he’d acquired a leather harness trimmed in gold and a dazed yet somewhat manic gleaming in his eyes. He looked drugged. "Hands off," Crowley snapped, and when the command didn’t scare nearly enough humans away, he drew on the very shadows around him, his voice echoing like the slamming of a cell door.

He nearly overdid it and put a crack in the ceiling. And yet the twink mauling Aziraphale’s neck wasn’t giving up. Neither was the beard daddy—the _wolf_—who looked ready to throw hands to keep hold of Aziraphale.

Crowley nearly ripped his fucking throat out. “He’sss _mine_,” Crowley hissed, pulling Aziraphale to him. He wrapped an arm tightly around Aziraphale and bared his fangs. Venom spattered to the floor, acid burning holes in the concrete. The lights ceased their flickering and he could feel the hellfire molten in the gaze he fixed on Mr. Big Bad Wolf, still huffing and puffing in rage. “So jog on, mate."

He dragged Aziraphale through the crowd, the harness surprisingly effective in pulling Aziraphale away from clutching hands. Crowley hauled him forward whenever someone tried to catch at the straps. They were persistent and quick, but he was quicker.

Outside was better, but it presented its own challenges. It was like Flesh Gordon (only Aziraphale himself was the sex ray) meets the Dawn of the Dead. Whatever it was Aziraphale was putting into the air affected every human they passed and it only seemed to be getting worse. It didn’t help that the whole way he was rubbing up against Crowley like a randy tomcat. Crowley barely got him in the Bentley in time to avoid running over any stumbling lovesick zombies in necessity to escape.

Roaring through the streets, he snuck looks at Aziraphale who was touching the brand-new seatbelt and the less-new paneling and his own bare forearms like he was rolling. Crowley supposed he _had_ found him in a club. He summoned power, attempting to leech every drug he could think of (a not insignificant number) out of Aziraphale’s system and...nothing. Aziraphale was still occasionally wetting his lips and returning his glances, pupils blown wide and pawing at himself like he couldn’t wait to get his clothes off—or Crowley’s for that matter. Crowley swallowed thickly and cranked down the window for the rest of the drive.

Arriving back home, he parked half on the pavement and worked on getting Aziraphale out of the car and inside. It was like trying to dodge a particularly handsy octopus. He had to resort to using the harness again, and in the lift, Aziraphale’s continued pawing and his half-growled craving for “a nice fat sausage,” did _things_ to Crowley’s nether regions.

Maybe bringing him back to the flat was a bad idea. Even the houseplants reacted to Aziraphale by whispering amongst themselves, and reaching for him with their greedy leaves, and budding all over the place, the perverts.

Tea. He ought to make tea. A nice hot cuppa wouldn’t risk further intoxication and often brought its own magic to set things right.

It took a few tries to convince Aziraphale to stay put while he put the kettle on. When finally Aziraphale was just sat there, Crowley turned away and yet he could feel Aziraphale’s gaze needling into his back. Making people want to undress him with their eyes was one of those temptations he enjoyed putting on like the occasional little black dress, but it was usually on his terms, and he’d tried many times before to get Aziraphale to look at him this way to little success.

Now that it was happening, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted it so badly, but did Aziraphale? His hands trembled with unfocused anger and pent-up lust when Aziraphale made a soft mewling sound and asked if Crowley had any idea what was going on. “Be truthful with me,” Aziraphale said, as if Crowley would ever lie to him of all beings.

The worst part is, he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know the why, and just a bit of the what. Crowley ruined another pair of glasses as he spun and grabbed Aziraphale, trying not to shake him or to kiss him as he delivered the hard, throbbing truth: “You’re horny, angel. Straight up gagging for it, looking for a first-class ticket to pound town, horny.”

Crowley’s gaze followed Aziraphale’s down to where he could see, very plainly, the thickened outline of Aziraphale’s cock, and he drew away before he could go right to his knees and nuzzle it.

The kettle clicked and Crowley was thankful for the excuse not to turn back to Aziraphale for a moment. He focused his attention on fixing them each a mug, the routine simple and familiar. The pull of Aziraphale’s sex ray eased a bit though Crowley didn’t risk looking directly at him in case it ratcheted back up. Still, they were able to have a reasonable dialogue for a bit, and if he was honest, he missed lace, too. He also agreed that Beau Brummel definitely should’ve gone to eternal torment, but it really shouldn’t have surprised Aziraphale to know Heaven had welcomed him with open arms.

Crowley did cringe a little when Aziraphale mentioned the rain and the damage—no wonder the storm had caused so much trouble having been laid with a miracle and enhanced with his own curse. Blast it, weather was always tricky.

“C'mon, let me get you in bed," Crowley said, aiming to see Aziraphale get past whatever _this_ was.

His reflexes only barely caught Aziraphale from falling into him at the suggestion. Even with the shirt and harness restricting full skin-to-skin contact, the intensity of the aura ratcheted a hundredfold on physical contact. Crowley sucked a breath in through his nose and steeled himself against the heady rush of warmth that he could _taste_. He quickly spun Aziraphale around so he couldn’t see the way he looked at him, blue eyes wide with longing and doing their best to disarm what shreds were left of Crowley’s willpower.

“Not that way! I’ll take the sofa.”

Steering Aziraphale through the flat to the bedroom was done mostly on muscle memory, all of Crowley’s senses pinpoint-focused on the brush of his knuckles against the firm muscle of Aziraphale’s back, still giving off waves of heat and what he could only assume were ethereal pheromones that had driven a good chunk of London mad with lust. Pheromones that were trying very hard to do the same to _him_. He supposed Aziraphale had always been damnably good at blessing crops and livestock during the spring.

"Really now dear, you don't have a single comfortable piece of furniture in your flat? I know you know what cushions are, you've put enough lumps in mine napping on them."

Crowley snapped and every pillow he could imagine needing fell upon the bed, most from the bookshop and worn to a perfect velvety softness. He always got so much shit for his flash tastes just because he preferred a high threadcount and some quality leather, when Aziraphale was the picky one with his insistence on nesting. Not that the nest didn’t look particularly appealing right now, with a body-sized heat source to boot.

So very appealing that Crowley found he couldn’t get his fingers to unhook from the back of Aziraphale’s harness. They simply refused to work. He stared at his hand, trying to will it to release, all the while knowing it would be easy as sin to twirl Aziraphale around and haul him close and slot their mouths together. To pull Aziraphale to the bed and on top of him and—

Biting on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, Crowley _pushed_ and broke the thrall just long enough to make his escape, slamming the door behind him with a finality that he prayed would stick.

He sunk down the wall of the kitchen, hands pressing hard against his eyes. His mind was racing as quick as his heart. Okay, so, unless someone like Hastur decided to pop up and make a housecall, it looked like the demon in the prophecy was him. Great. Fabulous. Fan-fucking-tastic. Aziraphale had been saved from the jaws of wolves and now—? Now what. Had that business in the club already been enough to strip Aziraphale of his purity? Was Heaven already watching? An already semi-disavowed angel causing a riot of impure sexual frustration in Soho didn’t sound like enough, but what about being here in Crowley’s flat, in this state?

Crowley slammed his head against the wall and groaned. He just needed to stay out here, let Aziraphale get over whatever this was, and keep his hands to himself. A simple, straightforward plan.

He retreated to the sofa, wishing now that he hadn’t already summoned what was clearly the best napping blanket—not that he really needed one at the moment, flushed as he still was. He closed his eyes and tried to find sleep, but the cushions around him were too soft. It reminded him of leaning up against Aziraphale when they’d worked for the Dowlings, on those sunny afternoons where lessons took a back seat to letting young Warlock run out his energy in the grass. How sometimes, Aziraphale had offered his lap as a pillow.

Crowley squirmed and grabbed a small cushion to bring with him to the floor. He crammed it under his neck and stared at the door separating him from Aziraphale. He’d always been fond of Aziraphale, grew to desire him and love him, but he’d been content (enough) to let time prove whether or not Aziraphale felt the same.

Now he could feel each ticking second like a great weight bearing down upon him. They’d helped stop the Apocalypse, had survived their respective trials, and landed on their own side with no further reason to play at being adversaries. He’d thought there’d be plenty of time to woo Aziraphale properly without Heaven or Hell to interfere.

Crowley tossed and turned, never managing to do anything beyond worry aimlessly and wrestle with the need to stand watch. Eventually he began pacing, each circuit bringing him closer and closer to the bedroom door.

On the hundred and eightieth loop of the room he couldn’t resist the pull any longer. He stopped and pressed his forehead against the door, then his cheek and chest. The surface was cool and unyielding and he could hear a faint occasional rustle from beyond, a sound clearly born of fitful sleep and not anything like Aziraphale pleasuring himself.

He might have been relieved that Aziraphale had managed to fall asleep, but once he’d thought the alternative, he couldn’t rid himself of the image: Aziraphale lain in _his_ bed, clever fingers teasing along his swollen cock. 

Crowley’s hand skid down the front of his trousers while his other moved up the door, fingers spreading so wide the webbing between them ached. He could wait here instead, and make sure any one who came for Aziraphale had to go through him first. How grateful Aziraphale would be to know he’d been so well-looked after. Crowley adjusted himself—it’d been a long time since he’d had to deal with the discomfort of being trapped hard and aching in his trousers instead of dripping into his knickers—and gave his cock a light squeeze. His mouth fell slack, and he couldn’t seem to stop.

Dimly, he could hear Aziraphale’s sleep growing more restless, sheets rustling as they were kicked away and the soft thump of pillows tumbling to the floor. Crowley came back to his senses in time to hear Aziraphale cry out, disoriented and distraught. He nearly ripped the door off its hinges to get to him.

“I'm here, I'm right here." Crowley assured him, and didn’t spare a thought for whether or not it would be prudent to touch Aziraphale again.

The only thing that mattered was his hands on Aziraphale seemed to have a calming effect. Aziraphale sank back into the bed with a soft sigh, his mouth turning towards a gentle smile, and he put a hand over Crowley’s. “Oh, Crowley, you’ve always been so good at looking after me,” he said, and then a hard shiver passed through him, and his back was arching again. “Always here for me when I _need_ you.” And then his fingers were tangling in Crowley’s shirt and Crowley was yanked unceremoniously to the bed and Aziraphale was on top of him saying a whole lot more of “please” and “need” and “now”.

Aziraphale was near begging, his hands clawing at his clothing before giving up to work them under Crowley’s clothes instead. His palms trailed fire in their wake. Left gasping, Crowley could only think to try and free him of the harness. “I’m here angel,” he said, babbling a bit as he wrestled with the buckles. They weren’t ready to give, or maybe it was just that his whole body felt weak and trembling when Aziraphale’s tongue skipped across the point of his pulse. 

“_Fuck_!" Crowley spat, and snapped to rid Aziraphale of it immediately.

Aziraphale rose to his knees, stripping himself of the ruins of his shirt. He tossed it aside and skimmed his hands down his bare front, eyes half-lidded. Crowley’s hands hovered near Aziraphale’s thighs, ready to steady him if need be.

Concern weighing heavily at the forefront of his mind, it didn’t entirely register to Crowley the position he’d let himself get into until Aziraphale’s thighs tightened around his and that sky blue gaze fell upon him again with a terrifying clarity. "Oh yes, that sounds like a marvelous idea, darling," Aziraphale purred, and descended upon him.

A completely undignified high-pitched yelp echoed in the room. Crowley tried to twist and escape. No matter how much he wanted this—and oh, but he very much wanted it—Aziraphale wasn’t in his right mind. He might be a demon, but he couldn’t….

“I’m so thankful you’re here, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, brushing his mouth along Crowley’s cheek. He managed somehow to be more sinuous in his movements than Crowley would have thought possible with limbs involved. His hands found Crowley’s wrists and gripped them desperately. “I need you. _Want you—_”

The will to wriggle free was ebbing, and Crowley couldn’t tell if it was the fog of his own sundry desires or Aziraphale’s clouding his mind now. He didn’t struggle as Aziraphale stretched his arms up above his head and then shifted to hold both of Crowley’s wrists in one firm hand. “I’m not ssssure you know what you want,” Crowley murmured, his legs parting as Aziraphale slid a knee between them.

Aziraphale kissed him, hungry and wanting, and Crowley was too stunned to kiss back. “I’ve never been more certain of anything, darling,” he said, drawing back to run a thumb over Crowley’s mouth before claiming it again.

He might have imagined it, but it seemed to Crowley that Aziraphale was _glowing_. Crowley knew that after this there was a good chance Aziraphale would never want to talk to him again, never be able to face him for embarrassment; all the millennia Crowley had gone slow and tread carefully and never ever crossed the line undone in this moment by whatever spell or curse Aziraphale was under. Crowley might not be a very good demon, but if this was his last chance to have a piece of Aziraphale… If he could make this _good_ for him, even if it was the only time… Crowley would selfishly imprint every second in his memory and do his best to make sure his angel got what he needed.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, his very name a confession, and kissed back properly when Aziraphale’s tongue pushed into his mouth again. He licked eagerly against the curl of his tongue, the softness of his lips.

When Aziraphale freed his wrists, Crowley had stopped fighting the lure. It was easy to stay pliant and willing and keep his arms where they were, a silent vow that he would give Aziraphale whatever it was he desired. He could feel Aziraphale’s lust radiating around them, shimmering in the edges of his vision like waves off tarmac on a hot summer’s day. It had ceased feeling vaguely dangerous, like standing too close to hot coals or near consecrated ground. Now it was more like discovering a glorious patch of dark wood that had been consumed by the path of a morning sunbeam.

He had no idea when they’d ended up naked. Or if it was his doing or Aziraphale’s. All he knew was they were pressed together tightly now with nothing in the way and he never wanted to stop kissing. To luxuriate for eternity in the feel of skin against skin and tongue against tongue, taste and touch mingling in his serpentine senses. Aziraphale’s hands had moved beneath him, fingers digging greedily at the low of his back, cock rubbing hot and hard at the inside of his thigh with growing urgency.

He wound his arms around Aziraphale, held him close and tightened his hold every time Aziraphale murmured “need you” into his mouth. 

Crowley lifted his hips up eagerly and it’d become his turn to beg, to pant into Aziraphale’s mouth how much he needed it, needed him. His own cock was aching, trapped in the space between their bodies and leaking. He thought he might come at any moment, every nerve in his body alive and sizzling.

The tilt of his hips brought Aziraphale’s cock closer to his hole, and Aziraphale caught his gaze as he pushed in. Crowley couldn’t look away, hypnotized by the way Aziraphale wore his pleasure and desire so plainly on his face. When Aziraphale was seated inside him, his gaze tore away to rake down Crowley’s body molten, and then a second time, agonizingly slow and measured. Crowley threw an arm over his eyes and suppressed a shudder of raw pleasure.

He was used to Aziraphale looking at him like he could shit rainbows, but to have Aziraphale looking like he simultaneously wanted to worship him and devour him…. Desperate to cling to him and fuck into him…. It was too much.

Crowley bit down on his lip and keened. He’d never felt like this before. So _full_. Not just the stretch of a hard cock or a fist splitting him open kind of fullness but something deeper. As if with each grinding thrust Aziraphale was for brief seconds becoming a part of him, their essences entwining within the fragile shells of these bodies.

He was unraveling, being taken apart, threads of stray thoughts that dared go beyond _this feels fucking amazing_ burnt to ash under the heat of Aziraphale’s hands. The greedy drag of Aziraphale’s fingers down the length of his side made Crowley twist for more, cry out for it in a throat so hoarse that it mustn’t have been the first time. How long had he been howling for it under the pace Aziraphale set? The push of their bodies together frantic now. Unyielding.

Crowley was vaguely aware that he was coming and that it, too, wasn’t the first time. He’d lost all concept of time, and he gathered the fragments of _now_ together like puzzle pieces until he had enough wits to frame Aziraphale’s face in his hands. Aziraphale’s brow was knit, his eyes clenched tight, teeth hard on his lip as if he was near to pleading for his own release.

“Angel,” Crowley rasped. He shuddered through another ripple of pleasure when Aziraphale bottomed out and held there, fingers tightening on Crowley’s thigh. “Have you even come yet?”

“I—”

“Look at me,” Crowley said, and fought that syrupy haze that tried to lure him back into blissful complacency. He wouldn’t mind being fucked for days by Aziraphale, but it would be better to go back to that moment when— When what? He clawed for the rest of that thought, that soft blue of Aziraphale’s gaze on him dark with desire but warmed by more than the heat of lust: the softness of clouds, of summer days in the grass, of late nights in the back room of the bookshop or on park benches with their knees close to touching. “Please, Aziraphale. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Aziraphale arched back, wings unfurling with a flash of light so searingly bright Crowley thought he’d go blind. He cried out, hands fisted in the sheets, and the last thing he saw before he screwed his own eyes shut were Aziraphale’s—a multitude of glowing azure, starry points of serene calm in a wash of divine white—before an immense wave of sensation washed over him as he passed out.

When Crowley woke, he felt better rested than he had since the Garden. That blissful calm lasted about as long as it took for his brain to remind him where he was and what exactly had happened. He let his eyes stay closed a few moments more, breathing in the mingled scents and willing the moment to last just a little longer. He could feel Aziraphale’s warm body next to him still—reassuringly a normal sort of warm and not the least bit feverish. Crowley cast a silent prayer to whoever might still be listening to him that he be granted the ability to get through the next ten minutes or, you know, be discorporated on the spot so he didn’t have to.

When discorporation didn’t seem forthcoming he cracked open his eyes and took in the sight of Aziraphale’s back, curved sweetly into Crowley’s side and his limbs sprawled in sleep. He stared as openly as he’d ever dared, taking in the whole of him and holding the image deep in his mind. It was the best he could do. He carefully slid himself away from the delicious warmth, getting up with as little disturbance to Aziraphale as inhumanly possible. A whimper of his name froze him in place as Aziraphale turned to throw an arm into the now-vacant space, casting around blindly for what was missing.

Fuck. Any thought Crowley had of disappearing, running and saving himself the embarrassment of being thrown out was gone. Evaporated in a puff of smoke. Whatever Aziraphale was going to go through coming to terms with what had just happened, he’d still need Crowley—even just to blame. He could do that much for him. Crowley indulged in the chance to watch Aziraphale sleep a moment longer, then padded silently to the bathroom.

*

Aziraphale returned to the world bewildered, which was nothing new considering he rarely bothered with sleep at all and here he’d gone and done it two nights in a row. The disorientation only grew as he stretched sore and naked limbs out across a rumpled bed. A bed that most certainly did not belong to him as it was very large and made up with linens that felt like butter, although the pillows were familiar…. He drew in a deep breath which smelled thickly of Crowley and of—

“Ah. Oh. Oh no. Oh _fuck._”

He covered his head in blankets and groaned. That had not quite been the evening he had planned. Steeling himself, he rolled out of Crowley’s bed with a wince and cast a desperate glance around for its usual inhabitant. Instead he found a chair set by a door which clearly led to an ensuite bathroom, and on it a carefully folded pile of his clothes—jacket and waistcoat missing, and what looked like a freshly miracled shirt—and a large plush looking towel. To find kindness in the aftermath of what he’d done…. Tears threatened to fall as Aziraphale collected the offering and slipped into the bathroom.

Clean and dressed, Aziraphale felt more in control of himself. Certainly more in control than he had been at any point the night before. He swallowed dryly remembering the events of the bar and what followed. Crowley had done him so many favors, saved him yet again from the jaws of danger and Aziraphale had never done anything but take what he wanted and left. Crowley had only ever asked Aziraphale for something he needed twice in the whole time they’d been together on Earth and the first had taken him a century to deliver in a careful tartan thermos, and the second he’d rejected outright even at the end of the world.

“You’ve been a fool, Principality Aziraphale.”

He stared into his mirror reflection and frowned. Maybe it wasn’t too late to see the stars.

Crowley was in the kitchen. Steam rose from a cup of tea resting next to an army of takeaway containers bearing the names of local bakeries and cafes. A fresh pair of dark glasses sat on his nose, but Aziraphale could still feel the way Crowley avoided looking at him.

“I, uh, figured you might want something to eat. It’s about lunchtime, so I grabbed a bunch of things.”

His hands were nervous around a coffee mug, tapping and body swaying slightly as his gaze refused to settle. It skittered around the room, glancing over Aziraphale and then fleeing to stare at the far corner where the only dust in the whole apartment had dared to gather. Even now, after all things, Crowley was being considerate and letting Aziraphale set the pace.

“Thank you. Will you eat with me?”

There was a soft exhale of breath.

“Yeah angel, anything you like.”

They sat with an empty stool between them, Crowley tearing a croissant into small pieces more than he was eating it, but he stayed. Aziraphale ate and felt his body settle with the familiar rituals of sandwiches and sausage rolls and even an apple galette.

Fortified with tea in hand, Aziraphale finally turned to Crowley. He deliberately caught Crowley’s gaze, even though the blood drained from him as he summoned the strength to say: “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley’s hands flexed and he brushed them free of crumbs.

“Nothing to apologise for, you just had a bad night. Bad reaction to something, doesn’t matter. You’re feeling better now, yeah?”

He nodded, but felt his composure waver as Crowley continued.

“Then just forget about it angel, no harm no foul. Could’ve been a whole lot worse. Can you imagine the papers this morning if I hadn’t found you? Splashy front page headlines like Randy Mob Runs Mad in Soho or Under Pressure: Orgy Breaks out on Dancefloor.” He waved nonchalantly and jumped up from his seat, collecting plates and cups to toss into the sink as if they both didn’t know he’d never bothered washing a dish in his life.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to curl inward and kept his spine straight and head held high. “Crowley...what if I don’t want to forget about it?” he asked, and dared Crowley to meet his gaze. They couldn’t very well _ignore_ what had happened and sweep it under the rug.

Crowley froze like a wild animal trapped which was absolutely the last thing Aziraphale wanted. He sighed and tried to speak softly, choosing his words with more care: “I don’t regret what happened. The circumstances, perhaps, that led us to um, be in the service of Venus, but I don’t regret what we did. Or that it was you.”

Crowley’s hands were white-knuckled gripping the counter behind him, as if the world was going to shift under his feet. 

Aziraphale’s composure crumpled again, this time entirely. He reached a hand out before drawing it back lest it seem greedy. “I only regret that you had so little say in what occurred. Oh Crowley, I’ve been dreadfully selfish. I’m sorry that you’re always having to put yourself out for my sake, and I’m so very sorry that this was done purely for my sake. I wish I could have made it better for you.”

“Better?” Crowley choked out the word. He pulled his glasses off and held them by the stem. His eyes were wild, pupils shifting wide to thin.

Aziraphale sighed and wrung his hands, but was firm in his resolve. “I understand if you’d prefer I never mention it again, or if you might never want to share my company again. I just don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate the things you’ve done for me, even when they run contrary to your own desires,” he said, gaze managing to hold to Crowley’s. He smiled wistfully, and knew he was halfway to babbling nonsense. “I will always hold that aspect of last night dear to me, always! Oh, if only I could reciprocate the care that you took with me, but for once this truly is about what you want, Crowley, not me— Foolish, selfish me. I won’t speak of it again, I—”

Crowley was still staring at him, eyes wide and adam’s apple bobbing as he gaped in disbelief. “Angel what in Heaven are you on about? I’ve been dreaming about that since the blessed Ark! You really think what happened wasn’t something I wanted? I’m the devil here. _I’m_ the one who took advantage,” he sputtered and began gesturing wildly, waving his arms and going red in the face. “You weren’t even in your right mind spaced out on whatever curse that witch laid on you with that stupid prophecy, you shouldn’t— you _can’t_ mean any of that!”

He went on ranting for a bit and oh, it was all Aziraphale could do not to laugh with relief. He could see it now, what he’d spent so long refusing to acknowledge as even a possibility. Crowley loved him, it was as clear as the sun in the sky and his heart felt full to bursting. Crowley _loved_ him.

And he loved Crowley, of course. He could never have admitted it, but he’d known that for ages.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer and gave up trying, catching Crowley mid-stammer with a kiss.

Crowley blinked at him, thrown off his argument so entirely that he nearly forgot how to hold himself upright. Aziraphale caught him with a hand at his back and then cupped his face gently in his hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see clearly, my dear.”

It was hours later, kitchen long abandoned for the comfort of the couch and a much slower exploration of hands and lips, when Crowley jerked upright and smacked a hand against his forehead.

“Eyes! I’m so thick. They were your eyes in the bloody prophecy!”

And at the same moment Aziraphale was noticing the faint stain on his trousers and remembering a certain splash of wine and his wings held aloft to protect him from shattering glass. He groaned and threw his head back as he covered his face in his hands. “Oh, of course they were and for fuck’s sake _I’m_ the soft prick not fully fallen.”

Lo, aft’r the ende of all things, they were both exactly right.


End file.
